Bloody Granger
by Inamioly
Summary: Draco Malfoy's weakness, much to his dismay, was none other than one Hermione Granger. He cringed, inwardly and openly, every time it dawned on him: he was physically and mentally unable to harm the annoying, irritating, maddening little witch, no matter how hard he tried. And he had tried. Very, very hard
1. Chapter 1

Contrary to popular belief, the Slytherin prince was not entirely unfeeling. Yes, in all truthfulness, he did wrinkle his nose at the slightest act of compassion, and immediately sniggered (audibly) should one feel even the tiniest bit inclined to show a miserable hint of emotion. And yes, he did have a closet full of smirks, each to a specific situation. He was, by all accounts, insensitive. Numb to all that is remotely real. Moved only by public displays of… bullying. Oh, the joy.

However, and despite his best efforts to conceal it under a very thick layer of sarcasm and cruelty, he was, above all and everything, human. And humans had weaknesses. Sorry, _weakness_, one –we would not want to castrate him, or something of the sorts.

Draco Malfoy's weakness, much to his dismay, was none other than one Hermione Granger. He cringed, inwardly and openly, every time it dawned on him: he was physically and mentally unable to harm the annoying, irritating, maddening little witch, no matter how hard he tried. And he had tried. Very, very hard.

Once, in his second year, when his infatuation (could he really deem it that?) first showed its claws, it had angered him to a point that a nosebleed suddenly found Draco's nose to be a very suitable home. For two days. _He thought her bushy, tangled, horrible hair was, in fact, adorable. _Well, off to the infirmary we go. Maybe he could even ask Pomfrey for a cure to his sure-to-be diseased mind. What was father going to say? The horror… the ho-rr-or. After the useless mediwitch repaired his bloody problem – no pun intended – he found that he still, sometimes, when he thought no-one else was looking, stared at the Mudblood's hair as if it had grown a snitch. And her chin… could a chin be pretty? Bugger, he was, undoubtedly and painfully, done. Toasted. Screwed. Someone might as well Avada him, because his otherwise fate would be much more unpleasant.

It was only in his third year that he noticed her eyes. Bloody hell… stupid Granger, with her stupid hair, and her stupid face, and her… eyes? He felt his mouth disengage itself from his brain, say something stup- sorry, _unintelligent_, and then receive a heartfelt punch. To his face. He slowly opened his eyes to the rhythmic sniggering of both Potty and Weasel, and found that it hurt a little less as he stared right into her brown, fierce, and at that moment furious eyes. Someone kill him. Please?

His forth year was when he (subconsciously) decided to change tactics. For his own piece of mind, his stream of successful insults never ceased, and the corners of his mouth never lifted at the sight of the pretty – _pretty boring! _bookworm. However, his resolve to never - ever, ever, under any circumstance or dangerous curse – smile resulted in him taking a little pleasure in seeing his female archenemy's face light up from a grin of her own. And so he would, every once in a while, and more often than he cared to admit, give her a reason to smile.

Of course, him being the walking paradox he was, following either a hilarious prank on Weasel (he had once turned his hair slimy green after a fighting match in the Great Hall between him and the bookworm, leaving behind a stunned crimson redhead and a giggling girl) or a random act of kindness- sorry, _not-cruelty_ (such as muttering a spell in Transfiguration that turned Granger's white teacups into Gryffindor-themed ones), he would then proceed to scold himself. In every possible sense of the word. Goyle actually took him to see Professor Snape one time after he found Draco hitting his head in the Slytherins' Common Room wall and mumbling to himself about _bloody lovely Gryffindors and their lions_.

Fifth year found a more sober Draco to work with. Life wasn't all peaches and roses anymore; he couldn't walk around school shouting curses at unsuspecting first years, or granting points to undeserving snickering Slytherins, or even making the damned Gryffindor princess smile. He could have sworn Potter caught him once… but he didn't stick around to find out, and after the raised eyebrow he got from him after charming Granger's books to follow her in alphabetical order, he scurried down the corridor and never looked back. So, on top of everything – which included _dear father_'s pressure to join the lunatics' club - , his favourite pastime was also, for the better part of it, ruined. Damn Potter and those ridiculously huge glasses… maybe he ought to break them sometime. On the other hand, it would mean another excuse to have freaking Herione Granger fussing all over him._ Oh, Harry, you incredibly muscular and adorably tortured wizard. Allow me to fix you glasses. Oh, it's nothing, really, but if you insist on some form of compensation, perhaps some snogging is in order…?_ Draco's entire self shuddered at the mere thought of Granger's horribly, terribly, disgustingly full lips colliding with Potter's, in a rush of passion. _Ew. Yuck_. Thank you for the nightmares. Thank you so, so much. Hit me with a lightning, God, I beg of you. It will be quicker, and certainly less painful.

Which brings us to Sixth Year. After the colossal failure that was the previous one (and all the others, for that matter – honestly, what was he trying to accomplish? Bad Draco. Bad. No pining after muggleborns. Mudbloods. _Mudbloods! Oh, bloody hell_.), he didn't hold much faith as to what this one would bring him. He supposed it would bring him some more responsibilities to shoulder – both inside and outside of Hogwarts - , and with it take away any promise of rewards in the form of simple pleasures. And by simple pleasures, he meant…

"Malfoy."

Oh, how he loved her snappy tone. Maybe if he made her trip… would she be so kind as to give him one of her world-renowned furious stares? Pretty please? With a chocolate frog on top? He wondered if she liked chocolate.

"Why in Merlin's name do you want to know?"

Uh oh. Did he really voice his thoughts aloud? "What are you jabbering on about, Mudblood?" Uff. This time he got it right. Remind yourself to reward your very quick mind with a lemon drop when you get back to the dorm.

"Well, Malfoy," Granger spat venomously. "You all but assaulted me with you far-away gaze and infuriating disregard for stairs policy. I mean… lean on the right if you're going up, stay on the left if you're going down… It's not that difficult, even if you do only have that ferret brain of yours to work with." She pretended to ponder things for a moment. "In hindsight, you're forgiven. I guess I really was expecting too much out of a simple ferret."

Draco merely smirked. What in Merlin's name had he done to deserve such a close-up demonstration of Granger's temper, and _when could he do it again?_ "You look exceptionally ugly today, Granger. Kudos on the new hair." He nodded approvingly, almost too convincingly, and almost as if the word _ugly _meant something else entirely in his very wide, very Slytherin_y_ vocab.

"Pleasant as usual, I see. Well, then, I best be on my way. Wouldn't want you to lose control over there and curse me into oblivion. Although…" She went down one step – one step closer to him, and smirked back, in a way that made his insides twist, turn, burn, and whatever else they did, making him slightly dizzy. "Although I must congratulate you on your newly found restraint. How very… Hufflepuff of you, darling. Not a single hexing attempt in almost…" She glanced at her wrist. "… seven minutes of relatively civil conversation."

"I try." Really? That's the best you can come up with? Damn Granger and her words, and her big, confusing sentences, and the lips with- uhm… whoa, stop right there. He frowned darkly at her, although, either because of the lack of context, or the clear lack of effort, she only deepened her smirk. C'mon, had the girl been taking lessons from him? "All that smirking looks good on you. With a green headband you'd almost pass for a Slytherin." Bollocks. Did he just compliment her? "Well, were you not a mudblood, that is." Ha! Nice save, Draco.

Granger laughed. How infuriating of her. "It never gets old, does it? This mudblood, however, is late for a meeting with her lovely Gryffindor friends, and she was just reminded of her hidden desire for chocolate. I think I fancy myself a bit of Honeyduke's finest chocolate with hazelnut cream. Au revoir, ferret."

And with that she leaves. She just walks down the stairs – really, all but springs down the steps, not unlike a happy little bunny - , and leaves poor Draco alone with his thoughts – which now have gone to the dangerous zone of chocolate, lips, smirking and hazel eyes. What was he to do… except…

That day at dinner, focusing on the dull conversation being held among his closest friends (involving something about purebloods, and blood that is pure, and, well, people with pure blood) was not in his plans. His eyes kept wandering to the annoyingly chirpy table that gathered all the Gryffindors. Rolling his eyes at his now badly bruised puree (from his blatant abuse with the fork), he wondered what they were so happy about. They were always so damn ha-ppy. Screw them. Screw her.

Uhm… Granger. What was she up to? His gaze fell unceremoniously on her giggling figure, and he could hear her content laughs all the way from her table. _How was that even possible? _Damn witch. Oh, he'd get her. He'd get her _good_.

As he saw her take a bite of an attractive slice of meat, he subtly raised his wand and muttered under his breath. _Sapochocoavela_

He then rejoiced in hearing the surprised gasps and seeing, out of the corner of his eye, the stunned looks the precious red princess got from her nearby friends. All the meat in her plate had been turned into small chocolate frogs, with hazelnut filling. Better yet, they could only be eaten by her. _Ha! I hope you get a painfully nasty stomach ache, Granger._ As the female Weasel tried to eat one of them and failed miserably, he chuckled and then quickly paled and lost all breathing functions.

Granger – stupid, ugly, stupid little bookworm – was raising one of her eyebrows at him – he just _knew _it was directed at him… - and wearing the smirk she knew (damn her!) he liked. Raising her pumpkin juice glass, she mouthed the words _thank you _and _ferret_, or at least he could have sworn she did.

And, surprise, surprise, he raised his glass as well – winking and smirking, his insides twisting and turning, and hoping to Merlin she couldn't see the way his cheeks were threatening to succumb to a smile.

_Damn her!_

**A/N: Ahah, just a cute little one-shot, to get my spirits up. I hope you all at least smiled a little bit… I know I did ^^**

**Leave a review, if you'd like. I'd love to hear your opinion!**

**Kisses*****


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione Granger was, for all intents and purposes, the very proud owner of an unparalleled brain and an equally stunning set of morals. Her known allegiance to the Boy Who Lived had surprised no-one but her tiny, First Year self, and the continued loyalty had only served to reinforce everyone's assessment of the Gryffindor Princess. She was, indisputably, one of the greatest witches to ever walk the floors of the mighty school that was Hogwarts. However, despite the public's unwavering certainty and Hermione's apparent modest acquiescence, her closest friends (a.k.a. Harry James Potter and Ronald Bilius Weasley) knew she wore said mask of grinning confidence out of sheer necessity, and not, as it was widely thought, out of actually experiencing the sentiment itself.

Not that Hermione would ever admit it aloud. She would roll her very uninterested eyes at the Slytherin sniggers and loud whispers, which always varied more in phrasing than they ever did in content, and would sometimes scratch the surface of redundancy (_"Feeling especially muddy today, mudblood?"_). She would even calmly hex any Slytherin wrongdoer for the recurrent misuse of power and fearful reputation, all the while looking as bored as if Binns himself was reciting all the Goblin wars from alphabetical order (_not that she would ever admit it!_), and never actually flinching or even gasping as yet another injury attempt threatened her integrity.

Yes, she was fearless. And brave. And strong. And shared Harry's very deadly trait of mixing honour with all of the above. Really, she was bound to get bitten in the proverbial behind someday – which she wasn't exactly cowering away from. One might even say she was asking for it.

For the past two months, Hermione had all but doubled her role as Hogwarts' Sixth Year Vigilante, to the point of utter recklessness at times. Once, having cornered Nott near the library, she forced him to empty his pockets (only to find several objects that could only belong to First or Second Years – such as Remembrants, purses filled with gold and a name written in the tag, a few Slytherin rings, …) and write down the names of all the kids he had stolen from. Later that day, the second generation Death Eater was seen walking around school muttering obscenities at the transients and resting a hand over his forehead, in a bad attempt at concealing a _meow, pat me_ sign in spotless calligraphy.

One other time, this one earning her more than a few scoldings from both a flabbergasted Harry and a slightly disbelieving Ron, she duelled Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bullstrode by herself _in the dungeons_. Like, seriously, did she have a newly acquired death wish she would like to fulfil as soon as possible and at the expense of her beloved friends' sanity? Shame on you, Hermione Jane. Shame. On. You. I mean, the girls did deserve it, for they were holding three very young Ravenclaws captive in the hopes of converting them to darker paths, and the Gryffindor girl did have everything under control, but _bloody hell_… she could have been eaten alive by the army of bloodlusting snakes that were watching, dumbfounded, and perhaps too stunned to do anything but blink in confusion.

_What was she thinking?_

Harry and Ron's reprimands did nothing if not actually increase Hermione's taste for danger. Really, that had to be it, right? It absolutely, positively, undoubtedly had to be related the girl's rising insecurity inside school walls, and her deep rooted desire to not stand still before blatant acts of prejudice, ignorance, and, most of all, unprovoked violence. Only… that wasn't it. At all.

In the first few seconds that followed every single one of her small triumphs, if one were to look closely to Hermione's changing expression, one would catch a glimpse (and a very subtle one at it) of bewilderment – enhanced by tightly pursed lips and a pair of wrinkles above her eyebrows - , right before she shouted her gleeful yell of victory and the frown got replaced by a massive grin. She had to look happy – she remained undefeated.

_And why in Merlin's ragged beard was that?_

There is a curious phenomenon associated with endless strings of unforeseen victories: the last (wo)man standing, instead of receiving a well-deserved surge of self-confidence and self-efficacy, will slowly shrink back to a form even smaller in those qualities than it had been to begin with. And our heroin, one Miss Hermione Granger, was suffering from said affliction, in such a way that it prompted her to tempt fate and push it to its far-away limits.

And so, one chirpy, sunny day in May, the Golden Girl decided to rebel against the sudden it's-so-warm-outside-so-let's-go-play-and-roll-around-the-hay movement, and go patrol the dimmer corridors (one might call it "look for trouble"). Careful not to attract the rest of the Trio's attention, she made her way to the castle, put on her best Perfect face, and narrowed her eyes so as to increase their accuracy in their dimly lit crusade throughout the dungeons. It was, in fact, quite a brilliant plan – nearing perfection, had it not a huge danger component - , since these corridors were the least monitored ones, and hence the ones all the transgressors would use to practice their transgressions at. Hermione expected two to three cases of bullying, maybe one much-too-forward flirt, and, were she lucky, some dark hexing near the Slytherin's Common room.

As she was approaching Professor Snape's chambers, and just before she made a turn to the right, a muffled cry coming from the farthest end of the corridor made her stop in her tracks, and her eyes widened in apprehension. Raising an eyebrow, she leant against the wall, and as another pair of sniffles and some more whimpering was heard, a deep, dark, guttural laugh (really, worthy of those horror movies her mom and dad liked to watch so much) halted the little kid's crying fit. Frowning, she tucked her hand in her right pocket, fuming with undisguised determination and something that resembled rage, and just as she was about to lift her wand and jinx whatever Slytherin (she was _dead certain_ it had to be a Slytherin) that was into oblivion, something tapped her shoulder and made her gasp and quickly turn around.

"Are you mental?"

Draco Stuck-up Malfoy was eyeing her from a very unsafe distance of merely five or six inches, his wand lazily resting on her left shoulder, and his expression a mix of frustration and pure boredom. Hermione, quite simply put, was too stunned to even breathe a semi-intelligent wording of her racing thoughts.

Malfoy sighed. "I'll rephrase - are you _bloody _mental?"

She didn't know what it was. Maybe it was the abruptness of the entire thing – really, did he have to scare her into a near heart attack? Was it entirely necessary, for awareness purposes (as it seemed), to nearly deprive her of coherent thinking by shocking her into such a state? She didn't know. All she knew was that she suddenly found herself unable to retort, even at a First Year level (which would require some misplaced cursing and a complete process of eye-rolling and frowning). "Are you?"

The Slytherin looked at her confusedly. "Well, obviously not, or we wouldn't be having this conversation." Well, duh. "Since you'd be dead." Pow. The wow factor. She wet her lips at this, perhaps so that they could come up with something witty, or insulting, or… well, remotely English to say.

"Oh, yeah?" She attempted a smirk. Uhm… that didn't feel right. _What was wrong with her?_ And _why were they whispering?_ "Well, Malfoy-" She spat loudly, and gasped again as he placed his hand above her moving mouth. _Really_, now that she had begun talking again… Bloody ferret. She huffed, and tried to bite him.

"Granger." He groaned, and only tightened the grasp on her lips. "Will-you-fucking-be-_quiet_?" She actually bit his thumb. An inner grin broke through her consciousness, and she felt herself smile into the palm of his hand. Draco rolled his eyes at that. "Oh, bloody hell, you've gone bonkers. And _stop with the biting_, mudblood. Wouldn't want to catch anything."

Hermione nibbled on his index finger, and Malfoy only hissed. They were verging on playful taunting – or at least not without its fair share of amicable provocation - , she realized with a horrified gasp, a border she would never, ever, ever want to cross, for she promptly stomped on his foot as hard as her girly shoes allowed her. She directed a satisfied smirk at his hushed yell of pain. And… she was free! Both his hands went to his foot, and – uhm, freedom tasted well. It smelt good, too. Oh, was that Malfoy's perfu- _Bad, Hermione, bad. No cookies for you._ Oh, she sighed sadly, and Dobby had promised her butter cookies for dinner.

She raised her wand at him and grabbed his own, leaving a wandless Malfoy with an injured foot staring back at her incredulously. And… angry? But not threatening, no… He appeared to be more angry at himself. Thank you, God, for you answered my naughty, very naughty prayers. She giggled.

Hermione smiled sweetly. "Last wish, ferret?"

"Typical. Look out for a bird, and the next thing you know, you're dead by her hands." He muttered, looking away in a theatrical fashion, apparently accepting of his fate. Were the circumstances different, his melodramatic huffing and puffing would have earned him an amused snort on her behalf. But the circumstances were not different. Without even processing her brain's command, her wand was at his neck and she was staring fiercely into his somewhat sheepish eyes.

"What did you just say?"

And it all started to make sense. Painfully so. Her victories were _his_ doing. Draco Malfoy, the snickering, sniggering bastard's doing. Bloody twisted life, and bloody Merlin, and bloody blond Slytherins, and their bloody snakey ways… and _bloody Ron and his foul language_. Soap, Hermione. You need soap in that mouth.

Merlin, it was painfully clear. So clear, it hurt her eyes. And gave her a headache the size of the Giant Squid's tentacles. Oh… _Merlin_. It was so clear that she felt she deserved a slap to her forehead. _Ouch_. And it didn't help. At all.

Like when she had fallen down the stairs after History of Magic, and her scraped knee had miraculously healed itself. She remembered how Malfoy's taunting voice had a different edge to it. _Concern_. Crap.

And the time when Ron had tactlessly suggested, in a two-hour Potions class, that Hermione should ask Snape for a potion of sorts to tame her hair, and had ended up with knee-length locks of golden hair for an entire day. He had been grumpy about it all day, scowling at Hermione for both her intentions and her quick thinking, and even Harry had congratulated her – after laughing, and laughing, and laughing at poor Ron's reddening face. But she knew it hadn't been her doing.

Or even when she hadn't wanted to face Hagrid's vomit-coloured worms and bathe them, and it took only a second of looking away from them to find them all shiny (though still revolting) and clean.

"You…"

And the duel with Parkinson and her faithful poodle. _He_ had been in the background. She had seen him, and the mere sight of him added a thousand pounds to her shoulders (already heavy with expertly concealed anxiety). But he hadn't tried to harm her… No, apparently he had been the one behind her triumph. Oh, my God… he had _confounded_ the surrounding Slytherins. That's why they hadn't even raised their wands at her. _That's_ why she won.

"Malfoy…"

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Granger." His cold voice snapped her away from her thoughts.

But even his snippy tone couldn't shake the confusion away. He had protected her. Over, and over, and over… One major freak-out, please. With a side order of forehead slapping and disbelieving gasps.

"I wasn't." And that, my friend, was a lie. Why was her voice so soft? Damn it, woman, be aggressive. When facing the unknown (which this would qualify!), be aggressive, be fearful, be… Oh, Merlin, don't you look at me like that. "Yeah, I wasn't. Don't you get yours, either."

"Never." There was that Slytheriny smirk. Hermione all but sighed in relief. Now that she could work with. Yes, finally some comfortable grounding. "Besides, I'm more of a boxers kind of guy."

Aaaand, we're back. Don't-blush. Don't you dare… Oh, well, what's done... "Unusual choice for a mama's boy." Ha! Hit him where it hurts. That's right, that's right. Find the upper hand. And then hold onto it like Ron does to his bacon.

"True." Malfoy snickered and folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the wall. "Though, I don't know if I should take this miserable attempt at verbal stabbing of yours as an act of pathetic rage or unashamed flirting. What, my dear Mudblood, do you think?" He finished with a low growl, a raised eyebrow, and… did he just flip her shoulder? _Playfully_?

Hermione just stared expectantly at him. Really, he was making her feel plain dumb. A sad excuse for a smart Gryffindor. A clumsy aggregate of trembling bones and boiling blood. A breathing, live pair of crimson cheeks. And – _stop that_, for Merlin's sake, _he's a bloody snake_. A snake. A snake… "Flirting? With you?" She went for the I'm-too-cool-for-you look, but by the looks of it, failed as miserably as Neville's impending Transfiguration NEWT. Now, that was mean, Hermione. Very Slytheriny. "Oh, shut up."

"What?" The smirk was back on. "No eloquent remark? Are the wordy speeches my responsibility now? Do I render you that… senseless?" He was enjoying this. That. Whatever _that_ was. That much she could see. What she didn't know was _why_.

And so she went for the honesty route. "Yes." Well, really, what else could she say? And then his expression dropped.

Ha! Victory at last. Now _he_ was speechless. And she was staring right into his defeated face. Into his eyes, his forehead, his cheeks, the two ears, the jawline, all the while enjoying the feeling of victory. Now, if only he pouted, she thought dreamily. Maybe a few tears. One or two would be enough. Just enough to really show her who won-

"Good." Oh. That doesn't sound anything like admitting defeat. Or retreating. Back into his snakey cave. Near his snakey friends.

Time stopped.

And the next thing she knew, he was kissing her. Wait, _what?_ Really, really kissing her, yes. Well, I suppose, if you know it won't happen again, you might as well go for it while you can. Hence the lack of pleasantries, and the readily open mouths, and the blatant disregard of the importance of a decent oxygen/carbon dioxide ratio in the blood stream… did he really stroke her cheek? Breathe, Hermione. Uhm. She felt both wands hitting the ground with a sharp noise. Defenseless. Vulnerable. Now she really needed to tighten the grasp around him – one could never be too careful, really, and hardcore session of snogging was a highly effective and recommended means of protection - , so she placed both hands on his neck, and he made it so she was leaning against the wall. Uhm, kudos for the mental sintony.

And then he suddenly stopped. He broke away from her, her lips slightly parted and her expression betraying more than a little frustration at his withdrawal. Panting ever so subtly, Malfoy eyed her firmly. And then he shouted into the other end of the corridor. "Oy! Trying to snog a bird, here, if you could stop all that ruckus." His don't-kid-with-me tone travelled all the way to the bullies, and just as Hermione was about to scold him for improper treatment of women, a small figure sprints past them, tripping all over himself, and disappearing against the shadows of the dungeons.

And so Hermione smiled at him, _really smiled_, and picked up both wands from the floor. "You do know this can never happen again, right?"

"Yes." Malfoy nodded, accepting his wand.

"One might say it is a pity."

He chuckled. "One might, indeed."

"But not me." She tilted her head to the side, and grinned as she straightened a strand of his hair.

"Me neither."

"Goodbye, Malfoy. Go, ferret away." She mock pushed him away from her. He pecked her lips, as if on an unregulated impulse, and a faint blush covered his cheeks.

"Farewell, you goodie bookworm. Stay out of trouble."

"And leave you stranded in the dungeons _jobless_, of all things?"

Chuckling away, they both returned to their respective places. They knew they belonged as far away from each other as it was humanly possible, but even knowing that didn't stop the Gryffindor from pulling a reckless card from her sleeve every once in a while, only to smile at the result afterwards.

Whatever stupidity she did, she knew he would be there to soften the fall with his ferret-made metaphorical net (or a concrete one, actually, such as when a group of Fifth Year Slytherins threw her off the Astronomy Tower and she landed on a white net with green triangles in all four corners).

And maybe, just maybe she would do something stupid enough to earn her a very forbidden, very hot French kissing session. Uhm, me thinks Snape is in need of a Gryffindor-themed morality class.

Grins ensue.

**A/N: And so it ends. I decided to write another one-shot as the first one got such a nice response. I don't know what you think… I quite like it, but hey, I'm kinda biased here :p**

**A special thanks to everyone that followed, favorited and reviewed the first one. YOU GUYS ROCK!**

**Please, leave a review if that's your thing: just know that every single one of them will warm my heart.**

**On this note, I bid you farewell, my friends, and hope you have a very good week! Kisses****


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